


Strawberrying

by R00bs_Teacup



Series: hc bingo 2016 [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Strawberries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 12:57:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7758679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>for hc bingo prompt 'backrubs/massages'. Porthos goes strawberry picking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strawberrying

**Author's Note:**

> If you're wanting positive happy Aramis fic, this ain't it.

Porthos follows Aramis through the rows of strawberries. Aramis is walking with Louis, bending with him, showing him how to find the best strawberries and how to tell they’re ripe. Porthos is holding the punnet. They’re all bare-foot, which hadn’t phased the people in charge of the pick-your-own in the slightest. Porthos had thought it might. Athos and Louis had both boggled at him a bit. Aramis explained that ‘uncle Pip is a city boy’. 

“You going to pick any?” Aramis asks, squinting up at Porthos, against the sun. 

“Hadn’t been planning on it,” Porthos says, plucking another berry from the punnet and popping it into his mouth, grinning. 

Louis confiscates the punnet and stomps off. Aramis glances back at Porthos, amused, but follows Louis. Porthos sighs, but no one pays the slightest bit of attention so he crouches down and sets about eating whatever’s closest, settling in to wait for the others to return. 

Later, stuffed full of fruit, laid out on his back in the grass by the river, Porthos regrets both eating quite so much while picking, and picking at all. Everyone’s finished with lunch and Aramis is nagging Louis into helping pack up their picnic, which means everyone’s preparing to walk back to the house. Athos is still sat against Porthos’ side, tapping away at his phone, ignoring everyone. Porthos lets out a pathetic groan to get his attention. All he gets is a small smile. 

“Right. Come on, guys. It’ll take an hour to walk back, and we need to get there in time for d’Artagnan and Constance’s arrival, or they’ll be locked out,” Aramis says. 

“I’ll ride on Pip, to go faster,” Louis says, coming over and plonking himself down on Porthos’ stomach. 

Porthos groans for real and Athos’ phone vanishes into his pocket, Athos leaping to his feet and scooping Louis up off Porthos. He lifts the child easily onto his shoulders and then starts walking off. Porthos is left to get himself to his feet, unless he feels like asking Aramis. Which he most certainly doesn’t. 

He walks at the back, Aramis and Athos walking side by side both talking to Louis. Porthos puts his hands in his pockets and ignores Aramis’ suggestion that he help carry things. Athos nicely distracts from that one, and Porthos is left to himself. When they reach the bridge, the half-way point, Porthos pauses to lean on the rail and look out over the water. 

“Hey,” Athos says, coming back, sans-Louis. 

“Where’s your rider?” Porthos asks. 

“Walking with Aramis. I told him my shoulders are tired,” Athos says, leaning next to Porthos. “Are you going to make it?”

Porthos ignores that. He just glowers. Athos sniggers and pats his shoulder lightly, then sets a slow pace. Porthos keeps step for a while, but by the time they reach the village where Aramis lives, he’s limping and he’s tired. Athos is hovering, not just walking with him, hovering and worrying and biting his lip. Porthos ignores it and trudges dogedly on, reaching the house. 

“There you are! Slow coaches!” Louis hollers from the gate.

He swings on it to open it and let them into the garden and then runs around them to the front door. Aramis is in the kitchen, unpacking the picnic things. He teases them for being slow and makes some pointed comment that suggests they were being romantic or kissing or something. Porthos ignores it and goes straight through to the spare room, glad Athos bagsied them the one on the ground floor.

“I told Aramis we were going to have slow hot afternoon sex and not to disturb us,” Athos says, following Porthos in. 

“Did you?” Porthos asks. 

“No. I said just enough that he’d make that assumption, though,” Athos says. “What’s hurting?”

“My back, and my neck. And, um, my belly, but that’s my fault because I ate far too much,” Porthos says, giving Athos a sheepish grin and rubbing the back of his neck. 

“And I suppose your back and neck hurting is not your fault? Because it wasn’t you who I saw bending and kneeling and so on, to get more strawberries to eat?” Athos says. 

“Exactly. Wasn’t me at all. Must’ve been someone else.”

“Someone else over six foot and built like a brick shit house?” Athos asks. 

“Yeah. There were lots of us out there, today. We like strawberries,” Porthos says. “Ath, I hurt, can we not?”

“Alright. How can I help?”

“Dunno.”

Athos nods, and comes closer, hands running over Porthos in a familiar comfort, removing items of clothing in as painless a way as possible. Porthos submits to it without protest, letting Athos help him sit on the bed and then lie on his stomach. It hurts, but Athos slides pillows under him until his back’s as supported as it can be. 

Porthos groans as Athos starts massaging his sore muscles. Over his back into his aching hips and his thighs, all the tension and pain eeking out into Athos’ fingers. Porthos moans, pushing his face into the bed, tears leaking out as the pain eases a bit. He really shouldn’t have done that strawberry picking, but if it ends like this, he can’t really bring himself to regret it. 

“Do you want to take something?” Athos asks, switching from massaging to just rubbing comfortingly over Porthos’ shoulders.

“Don’t know,” Porthos says. “It still hurts, but that massage helps. Maybe it’s fine now.”

“The massage will help more later than immediately. You’re such a hedonist, you know that? Any relief and you wallow in it. I can’t stay here forever.”

Athos lifts his hands away from Porthos’ skin, and without Athos to focus on, without the gentle comforting touch, Porthos realises just how much he still hurts. It’s better, but not gone. He swallows dryly against a sudden need to just cry. Athos’ hands are back, though, rubbing comforting circles over his shoulders. Porthos feels Athos’ lips at his neck, his whole body close and warm. 

“Alright,” Porthos says.

Athos brings him some paracetamol and a muscle relaxant, and water. He goes back to the massage, focusing on the muscles that always get tense around the aches and pains, keeping them from bunching up and twisting and knotting. He keeps on at it for half an hour, until Porthos is dozing. 

“How are you doing?” Athos whispers. 

Porthos hums, and Athos gets close again, his body against Portho,s’ lips trailing kisses over his skin. Porthos reaches out with a clumsy hand, and gets hold of Athos’ head gently, tugging him up so they’re lying face to face. Athos stays there, one hand moving comfortingly over Porthos’ back and side. He whispers nothing much until Porthos’ dozing become a deeper, softer thing, almost sleep. 

Porthos is vaguely aware of Athos getting up to go, but hardly. He’s too warm and safe to mind anyway. He lies there, drifting, so close to sleep as to make no difference. He’s still aware of the world around him, but only aware, not part of it. Detached. He falls deeper, and the world merges into that of dreams, leaking into one another, sounds knitting. 

Athos lets himself into the house, leaving the others in the garden playing with Louis. Constance asked him to get more drinks, and Athos really is meaning to. He slips through the kitchen, though, and to his and Porthos’ room, moving carefully and quietly. Porthos is lying more or less exactly where Athos left him, sprawled in the sunshine from the window. He’s deeply asleep now, though .

Athos sits on the edge of the bed and just watches him for a while. He doesn’t touch, doesn’t disturb him, just watches. Porthos lets out a sudden snorting snore, and Athos covers his mouth to keep his giggles from emerging. He sits against the headboard, curling in on himself so he can examine all the beautiful lines of Porthos’ body, so he’s closer and can hear each breath, each snuffle, each quiet mumble. Porthos is always quite a noisy sleeper. 

“Hey,” d’Artagnan whispers from the doorway. “I came to complete your mission. Thought I might find you here. How is he?”

“Napping,” Athos whispers, turning his head to smile at d’Artagnan. 

“He did strawberry picking too, didn’t he? Idiot,” d’Artagnan whispers, fond and amused.

“He did,” Athos whispers. “He was in pain. I think he’s okay though.”

“Aramis didn’t notice a thing?”

“No.”

Athos looks at Porthos again, and sighs. He wishes Porthos would just talk to Aramis, sort some of it out, tell him some of it. Porthos won’t, though. He’s too hurt. Athos understands. He blames neither of them for their choices and he’s very pleased that Aramis is back in their lives. He understands, though, that for Porthos, to be left is something incredibly painful, no matter what the reason. 

“I brought you some of the strawberries. I’ll tell Aramis you’re doing something raunchy with them,” d’Artagnan whispers, coming further into the room and setting a bowl of strawberries on the side-table. 

“Thanks.”

“Just look after him. I’ll come back later.”

d’Artagnan goes, shutting the door with a quiet ‘snick’ and Athos is left alone with Porthos again. He eats a couple of the strawberries, trailing his hand over Porthos’ body, then he gets up and finds his kindle and settles in, meaning to read. He ends up playing solitaire and watching Porthos instead. 

Porthos comes awake all at once, with a jerk and a whimper, then a groan. He stays face first in the bed, shivering, body taut. Athos puts aside his Kindle and clears his throat, then hums, then reminds Porthos that it’s just them in here. Only then does he reach out to settle a hand on Porthos’ back, feeling the muscles bunch and tense. 

“Hmm?” Athos says, rubbing gently and slowly. 

“‘Kay, I’m ‘kay,” Porthos whispers, voice rasping. 

“Good.”

Athos rubs with a little more purpose, shifting himself so he can reach better, letting his hands roam over Porthos’ back and hips. He waits for Porthos to begin to relax, then gives him a massage, hands familiar with Porthos’ back, his thighs, the muscle of his arse. Athos knows every inch. Every give and tense. 

“Had a dream,” Porthos mutters. 

Athos hums in agreement and invitation, so Porthos can go on or stop there as he needs. Porthos stops there. Athos concentrates on his hands, focussing for a moment on Porthos’ shoulders, the tight knot that he gets just at the juncture of his neck. He goes carefully, waiting for give before pressing, knowing it’s painful. The muscle relaxant will have helped a little. 

“d’Artagnan arrived?” Porthos asks. 

“Mm. He came in to see you, brought some strawberries for you,” Athos says. 

Porthos makes an interested noise, but makes no move yet. He’s becoming limp under Athos’ ministrations, which is good. Athos digs the pillows out from under him and helps him shift around, propping him up. Athos sits against his hip, so they’re face to face, and rubs his belly, over his thighs, then his shoulders. 

“Think I’m good,” Porthos says, grinning a little. “Unless you wanna do some massaging, if you get my drift.”

Athos snorts, but shoves his hand between Porthos’ thighs for a fond rub there. Porthos laughs, but shows little interest in that. Athos shifts his hand to Porthos’ thigh instead, and reaches for the strawberries, offering one with his free hand. Porthos opens his mouth expectantly. Athos snorts again, but feeds him. 

“I love strawberries,” Porthos says. 

“Yes, I could tell, earlier, when you ate about six tons,” Athos says. 

Porthos sniggers, then opens his mouth like a baby bird, and gives Athos a demanding, amused look. Athos feeds him another strawberry, feeling indulgent. d’Artagnan comes in while Porthos is sucking the juice off Athos’ fingers. He leans in the doorway, eyebrows raised, lips curled into a smile. 

“Hullo, Pip,” d’Artagnan says. “Aramis tells me you’ve been having lots of exciting sex with Athos all afternoon.”

“Oh yeah,” Porthos says, tugging Athos till he falls across Porthos’ chest. “Loads and loads.”

Athos wriggles until he’s sat next to Porthos instead of on top of him. 

“Thought I’d tell you we’re going to go to town, see about eating out somewhere,” d’Artagnan says. 

“I ate me weight in strawberries already, not sure I’m up for that,” Porthos says. 

“I’m sure you have space for dinner,” Athos says, rubbing Porthos’ belly. 

It’s still flat and soft, from his most recent hospital stay, for the operation on his hip. Athos’ hand drifts, to the hip instead, and he rubs the muscles until he feels them give. Porthos must still be in pain, though. 

“Then again,” Athos says. “I was thinking, maybe some real sex would be nice?”

“Oi,” d’Artagnan says, arms crossing. “Don’t bluff me.”

“I’ll just nap a bit,” Porthos mumbles. “Feel better after some sleep. You go on, Ath.”

“I hate it when you try to make me be sociable,” Athos grumbles. “You know very well I absolutely love it when you’re all sickly and just want to stay in bed with me all the time.”

Porthos’ arms tighten around him and Porthos buries his face in Athos’ shoulder. Athos yelps, then rubs Porthos’ shoulders until the grip loosens. 

“I’ll leave you to it. I’ll get you something proper to eat, both of you, before we leave. I’ll just make it up and put it in the kitchen for when you want it,” d’Artagnan says, retreating again. 

“Charles?” Porthos says, head coming up off Athos’ shoulder. 

“Yeah?”

“Could you have a look in the car, see if Athos remembered to bring my microwave thingy?” Porthos says. 

“Me?” Athos says. “Why did I have to remember? I didn’t remember. Why would I-”

“Could you check?” Porthos asks. 

Athos remembers that ‘microwave thingy’ means the soft giraffe that Athos gave him when they met. Athos replaces it every year, and Porthos pretends not to notice. Athos closes his mouth and lets d’Artagnan go to have a look for the completely unimportant thing that Porthos would never bring but Athos might have. d’Artagnan obviously knows what it is Porthos wants, too, because he laughs and goes without a fuss. 

“There’s no need to be embarrassed about wanting your squishy,” Athos whispers. “No point, either, because we all know.”

Porthos pretends he can’t hear Athos. They sit quietly for a while, then Athos hears the ping of the microwave and tries not to laugh. Porthos digs his fingers into Athos’ ribs, making Athos squeal and wiggle against the tickles. d’Artagnan comes with the giraffe and distracts Porthos, and Athos flops limply, reaching out a pale, sad hand to accept the beast. 

“You’re very dramatic, baby,” Porthos says. 

Athos opens up his eyes to see Porthos smiling down at him. d’Artagnan shuts the door on them. Athos gives the giraffe a squeeze then sits up and helps Porthos lie on his back, and rests the giraffe on his stomach. Porthos shifts it to his side, against his hip. Athos frowns, and lets his hand follow the squishy, finding the tense muscles there and massaging gently. 

“Sore?” Athos asks. 

“Yeah. I’m fine. Nap?”

“If you like.”

“Do something for me?”

Athos gives the hip another rub, then digs out his Kindle and finds a drama on the BBC radio app. Porthos smiles when he hears ‘Paul Temple’ music, and Athos applauds his choice. He goes back to his massaging, and Porthos dozes. 

~fin~


End file.
